


The Blacksmith

by BookBinder



Category: A Plague Tale: Innocence (Video Game)
Genre: A healthy amount of flirting, Angst with a Happy Ending, As canonical as physically possible with a historical fiction story, Class Differences, Different protagonists have different antagonists, F/M, Family, Friendship, Minor Canonical Character(s), Not Quite Slowburn, Not a whole lot of bright side, Physical Abuse, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Rodric is a good man, Romance, Storytelling, The Painted Man, The ship is strong and heavy, Torture, Trying To See the Bright Side, original characters because the characters interact with the world before and after the Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22929970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookBinder/pseuds/BookBinder
Summary: Welcome to the story of Rodric the blacksmith, a boy who is in love with stories, dreams of adventure, and a noble named Amicia. It is also the story of a painted man, who thrives in the darkness and can never be forgotten. It is the story of rats, and how to find friends in terrible places. Our characters are about to venture forth on a journey that will lead them down into a terrible dungeon, through fires, and far harbors, and, ultimately, into each other's lives.What happens next? My dear reader, listen as I tell their tales and find out.
Relationships: Rodric/Amicia de Rune
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Proem

Nightmares and Dreams.

I suspect they are both the same thing. They both beguile the mind and confuse the senses with wonder and strangeness so all that once was familiar becomes freakish, and the most bizarre of things intimate and natural. I don't know how all that is life can be torn away in a moment, nor how a moment can last a lifetime, but I think it has a lot to do with whether or not the voices around you call it reality or not. 

Sometimes we hear voices, some call them voices of reason or conscience, some might consider the voices to come from the dead, someone we respect, fear, love or hate, I see most people calling them messages from a god. I think it’s just a thing people do, but they shouldn't be a collection, and the voices shouldn't stay, I've lived long enough to know what should be normal and what isn't. I used to think they were just guardian angels, like the things you hear from clergy at street corners and in their buildings. I don't know how I began collecting voices, but they are as rancid as a nightmare, feasting on my fears; at other times sweet and understanding. I used to daydream, and my father would scold me for it, but I wish I could regain the habit. Now, it's more like walking in a nightmare with rare glimpses of the mercy that is reality. 

I once met a beautiful creature that crawled out of a nightmare. She was beautiful and fierce, but she was part of a nightmare so foul and terrifying that I couldn't get out of it, couldn't do anything, nothing but watch and accept. 

Nightmares and voices creep into everything beautiful. The dark rot grows unceasingly. Did you think that just because the rot isn't covering the homes that you can just move on as if the bones and veins of the stones won't remember it? My skin still crawls, my flesh still bleeds, my eyes still weep, and my head wants to tear itself into pieces as my heart can't decide if it just wants to keep beating to live or beat itself to death. I wish it were the latter because this is all getting annoying. 

I just wanted to live but I'm tired. 

And I'm alone, and I don't want to be. I want to dream again. I want to see my family. I'll miss them if I die here. I know it’s pathetic, but I want to see her smile again. I want-

I’m being pathetic.

I know. I'm being selfish, I'm only talking about myself, not even that, I'm just complaining. I wanted a happily ever afterward, it was a new phrase I had just begun to hear from the far traveling poets and troubadours. They used to pass through my hometown long before everyone in it was murdered. I think they took the saying from the English. I don't know. But damn it, I think I can complain, I'm dying and it's taking too long. I don't think I'm entitled to a happily ever afterward, it just sounded so beautiful, sounds so much like honey, that I wanted it with my whole being. 

Don't leave me behind. 

Just stay with me for a bit. At least wait until I stop breathing, it will only be a couple of seconds.

Or help me up, I can go further if I get a little help. For the love of God, don't leave me behind. The dark rot is growing and it is only getting closer.

And I am scared.


	2. The Damned Door

Blacksmith Shop, Circa 1343

The heat from the forge beats back the morning chill enough that he may work in relative comfort. The blacksmith shoveled more charcoal into the forge, quickly raising the heat on his arms and face. He brushed off the heat with his hand. It was hot enough. Looking over his choice of iron rods before being content with it, he placed it partway into the fire. The metal clicking and chirping as it warmed. It was a quiet morning, at least until Rodric stumbled into the forge, bleary-eyed and yawning, his hair looped in cow-lick disarray. 

He’s a good apprentice, if occasionally late to rise from bed. ‘You must wake earlier than this, my son. The forge must warm your face ever before the sun can. This is the third time this month.’ 

‘Yes, Master papounet, no truer nor more poetic words of sage warning can ever be spoken again.’

‘Do I hear snark from you? If your tongue can spit that out this early, you have enough vigor to wake up on time, you foolish boy!’ The old blacksmith chastised with a laugh. ‘What were you doing out so late- I could hear you sneaking in like a blind bear. Have you fancied a woman?’ 

‘Ah, yes.’ Rodric replied with a sly smile, pulling on his apron and sliding his hands into gloves. ‘I found a truly beautiful creature; she and I meet in secret to share our passions. We have agreed to marry when the moon is fullest to exchange vows, we'll see if we can get her village's priest to come, or maybe just elope.’ 

‘Really!? But you just turned of age!’ 

‘No.’ Rodric deadpanned.

‘Oh.’ 

A few minutes passed before he continued, ‘Did you notice the camp outside of the gates yesterday? No? Well, some of their merchants came by here to restock. I heard that they had trouvères traveling with them.’

‘So you went to listen to the troubadours by their campfire? Ah, you pathetic romantic,’ smacking Rodric on the upside of the head. 

‘I am not ashamed of listening to beautiful stories.’ Rodric laughed.

‘My boy, can nothing shame you?' The master blacksmith, shoves the bar of wrought iron back amidst the coals, watching the metal heat back to a glowing orange. He makes a motion for Rodric to grab the rod and take his place when the time was right, his son sets it against the anvil and begins hammering it flat. There were ample orders for weapons that needed to get started, but Gregorie is content to watch Rodric work with capable hands before addressing them. The morning passes slowly.

‘Blacksmiths!’ a voice calls from the alley gate.

The master blacksmith makes sure his work is good to leave for a moment and steps back from the forge, to squint down the alley. A small group of only three stood at the entrance. He recognizes their clothes like that of men of the faith who presided from the University.

‘Are you the master blacksmith Gregorie?’ Asked the priests.

‘That is I,’ he responds as the group comes to a halt before them. ‘What brings you to my forge?

‘Tis' a matter of great urgency and secrecy,’ the man said quietly as he neared, the head bishop of the University if Gregorie remembered correctly. His companions study the master and apprentice, sharp eyes flicking about the forge, resting again for a moment on Rodric, who is determinedly running a whetstone down the length of a blade, tangibly ignoring the ecclesiastical guests, before moving on.

‘You do good work, forge-masters,’ the bishop praises bluntly to the boy. He was a tall man, with greying tonsure hair and a silvering beard. ‘These are fine blades and tools.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Gregorie replies with a bow when his son refused to respond. ‘I take it you are not here to pick up chalices or doorknobs.’ He signals for Rodric to lock up the gates and remain with the smithy, who responds with a curious nod. ‘Come inside, your excellencies. Don't mind my son, we can speak plainly.’

Rodric puts the blade onto the counter, watching the men enter his home before walking down the alley to lock the gate. Rodric returns to the anvil to hammer its current project flat, hitting the metal a little harder than he had intended to. Finishing the blade, he starts work on the other orders, the jobs were completed quickly, finishing most of them before moving back to the sword for refinement. The clergymen make their way from his home as he tosses the blade onto the table.

The bishop nods. ‘Farewell, forge-master,’ he says.

Rodric doesn't watch them go, barring the gate closed as soon as they priests had time enough to pass through them, looking to his father who in turn sharply turns to him in rigid disappointment. ‘Rodric. I expect you to treat the clergymen with better respect. I expect you to stand straight and look them in the eye.’ Rodric's scowl deepens, but nods. ‘Good. Now, are you quite done making a ruckus with that sword?’

‘They want us to build a door.’ Gregorie whispered as he guided his son back to their workspace. 

‘Rumors are that the war is getting worse,’ Rodric dragged his hair out of his face in frustration, ‘and they want us building a door? Sounds just about right.’

‘Quiet your voice.’ His father looks around, seeing no one. It will be for the University. They say that the time for caution is upon us. You will mention this project to no one.’

‘Sir, I have a very poor feeling in my gut about them. You should have told them to take their business elsewhere.’ Rodric pointed at where they once stood. ‘There are other smiths. We aren't even the closest ones. They could even ask the carpenter to build their damned door!

‘Rodric! Silence.’ Gregorie looked appalled at his son. ‘They know of our work, and they know we are good. This is a great honor.’

The sun moves halfway across the sky before either break the silence. ‘Aye, that’s how war is,’ Gregorie says. ‘It always gets worse. There’s nothing glorious about war, my boy. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. It’s gory, bloody work. But the lives of plain men continue.’ He shoves the metal back into the forge’s heart, watching it warm to a bright orange again before returning it to the anvil, hammering at the edge. ‘Rodric,’ he says, ‘I think you should watch for a while.’

‘Watch you work, sir?’ Rodric asks, head darting up from his task, curiosity already burrowing as he sets aside the blade and goes to his father's side.

‘Aye,’ the old blacksmith says. This would distract Rodric from his thoughts. ‘See how I’ve turned the edge here?’ Gregorie asks, gesturing with his hammer.

‘Yes, sir,’ Rodric says.

‘I want to draw out the metal, making it thinner,’ he explains, bringing her hammer down again, sparks scattering into the air.

‘So you can make a proper sword,’ Rodric says, looking back at his blade which was nearly honed to deadly sharpness. ‘I know this.’ 

‘Correct,’ Father says. ‘Any idiot can take a bar of metal, sharpen its edges and call it a sword, but a proper blade takes time and care, like any craft.’

‘What do you call an improper blade?’ Rodric asks.

‘A club with grand ideas,’ Father says, prompting a smile from Rodric.

‘Now,’ Gregorie continues, ‘we keep heating the metal until we’ve got the shape we want for the blade. After that, we’ll heat and quench it to harden the metal and repeat until it’s the exact hardness we want. We’re not ready to quench the metal just yet,’ Gregorie says, eyeing the bar beneath the hammer which is losing its glow. ‘It still needs work.’

‘You taught me this as a child.’ Rodric smiles at him, confused but curious. Gregorie is glad to see it; it’s been a while since the boy has smiled so brightly. ‘But didn't you want me to make those designs right now?’ Pointing at the other plans and illustrations. 

‘Sometime soon,’ Gregorie promises, ‘Not yet. I feel like you need this. You’ll learn by watching me first, then we’ll start you on making this lock but inverted. They’re a bit more forgiving for apprentice-work.’

‘Yes, sir.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun PT facts! Rodric was short of 13 years old when he and his father began their construction of the University's secret doorways. As the main door was built around 1343, the year that the Catholic Church noted that the Prima Macula was found on the de Rune baby, Hugo. 
> 
> *Papounet is a french term of endearment for father, akin to Pops or papa.
> 
> Comments are appreciated!


End file.
